The Twelve Dice of Christmas

By Gail Oust

In the new Kate McCall Mystery from the author of Death Rolls the Dice, when Kate stumbles on the skeletal remains of a man who disappeared decades ago, she’ll have to solve the coldest of cold cases to nab a killer before the holidays really go south . . .

About the Author:

Friends often accuse Gail Oust of flunking retirement. While working as a nurse/vascular technologist, Gail penned nine historical romances under the pseudonym Elizabeth Turner for Avon, Pocket, Berkley, and Kensington. It wasn’t until after she and her husband retired to South Carolina that inspiration struck for a mystery. Hearing the words “maybe it’s a dead body” while golfing with friends fired her imagination for this series. Gail is also the author of the Spice Shop Mysteries for Minotaur/St. Martin’s. When she isn’t reading, writing, or sleeping, she can usually be found on the golf course or hanging out with friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beyond the Page Publishing
• Release date: Nov 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781946069900

Gail Oust

The author of the Bunco Babes mystery series, GAIL OUST is often accused of flunking retirement. Hearing the words "maybe it's a dead body" while golfing fired her imagination for writing a cozy. Ever since then, she has spent more time on a computer than at a golf course. She lives with her husband in McCormick, South Carolina.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I don’t believe this! Rita Larsen tossed her pencil down on the pile of score sheets scattered across Connie Sue Brody’s kitchen table.

Pam Warner, my BFF, and I exchanged worried glances. What’s wrong?

The Bunco Babes, as we called ourselves, had just completed two sets of our favorite game: bunco. No brains, no skill required—my kind of game. After a lot of rolling and tossing dice, a lot of laughter, a glass or two of wine, and, of course, plenty of chocolate, the Babes and I were ready to call it a night. We had started gathering our belongings while waiting for Rita to tally the scores and award the prize money. Considering each of us only put two dollars into the kitty, there was no danger that the money would put us in a higher tax bracket. Still, winning was a nice bonus to an evening spent with eleven of your dearest friends. Winning, in fact, was almost as good as going home with the coveted rhinestone-studded tiara, a relic from Connie Sue’s reign as a beauty queen.

Rita shook her head in disbelief. "In all the times we’ve played, Tammy Lynn has never come in with the lowest score."

Her statement had a ripple effect. Chatter stopped; the room grew silent.

That can’t be right. Monica pursed her lips. Recheck your math.

Uh-oh, I whispered to Pam. I sense trouble brewing. I swear, Monica Pulaski must’ve been napping when God dispensed the tact gene. Outspoken and opinionated best describe Monica. She tends to barge in where angels fear to tread.

Rita, not exactly a stranger to the outspoken and opinionated department, leveled a cold stare at Monica. Are you insinuating I can’t add?

I’m sure that’s not what Monica meant, sugar, Connie Sue said in an attempt to smooth things over with her patented Southern charm.

I cleared my throat and tried my version of charm—Yankee-style. Rita, we know you used to be branch manager of a bank. Your math skills are right up there with . . . with . . . My recollection of math wizards deserted me.

Bill Gates? Polly, our group’s septuagenarian, leaped into the breach.

Gloria Meyers, Polly’s long-suffering daughter, smoothed her shoulder-length salt-and-pepper bob. Are you sure you’re not thinking of Stephen Hawking?

Claudia Connors snatched the last foil-wrapped chocolate from a crystal dish. Whenever I think of genius, Albert Einstein comes to mind.

If I recollect, Thacker proclaimed Jeff Bezos a ‘mathematical wizard,’ Connie Sue drawled, quoting her husband, Thacker, whom I secretly referred to as St. Thacker of Macon. In Connie Sue’s estimation, Thacker was the be-all and end-all when it came to finance. She paid homage to his savvy by preparing him pot roast every single solitary Wednesday night.

Jeff Bezos? Monica frowned. The guy from Amazon?

Jeff’s got my vote. Polly nodded so vigorously her permed yellow curls bounced. Why else would his company be worth a gazillion dollars if he wasn’t brilliant? Besides, he’s a cutie.

Gloria rolled her eyes.

What, what? Polly demanded. I happen to find bald men sexy.

Sorry to dispute your choices, ladies. Diane Delvecchio slipped on her lightweight jacket. Experts argue that Archimedes was the greatest mathematician of all time. Others are convinced it was Pythagoras.

That’s our resident librarian for you. Janine, a Jamie Lee Curtis look-alike with her slender figure and cap of silver hair, collected the empty wineglasses while Rita continued rechecking scores. "I told Diane that she should try out for Jeopardy! With her memory, none of us stand a chance when we get together for Trivial Pursuit."

Speaking of trivia, I said, who’s hosting bunco next time?

Rita glanced up from divvying money into appropriate categories. It’s my turn. I suggest we do a Christmas cookie exchange.

Count me in. Connie Sue smiled as she began loading the dishwasher. Y’all, I found a great recipe for low-cal, low-fat cookies that I’ve been wantin’ to try.

Perfect, Pam said, but her voice lacked enthusiasm. She probably felt the same as I did. Low-cal, low-fat usually equaled less flavor.

Suddenly, Polly clapped her hands together. Why not kick our cookie exchange up a notch. Let’s turn it into an ugly Christmas sweater contest, too.

I don’t know . . . Monica demurred.

Oh, come on, you guys, Polly chided. Where’s your sense of adventure? It’ll be more fun than a barrel of monkeys.

Claudia reached into her Kate Spade handbag, pulled out her iPhone, and scrolled through her messages. Personally, I always thought a barrel full of monkeys was overrated, she muttered.

Polly’s right, Janine said. Bunco, Christmas cookies, and ugly sweaters. Think of it as a trifecta.

Diane dug her car keys out of her jacket pocket. All right, let’s give it a whirl.

Rita rang the bell we used to signal the end of each round to get our attention. Listen up, ladies. I’ve checked and double-checked the scores—and with the same results. First place for highest score goes to Diane.

Amidst applause, Rita announced the winners for second place, most buncos, and most baby buncos and handed out the prize money. Last but not least, she said, waving two one-dollar bills, Tammy Lynn Snow had tonight’s lowest score.

Tammy Lynn? Where is she? I wondered aloud.

And where’s Megan? Pam scanned the faces of the women clustered in Connie Sue’s kitchen but didn’t spot her daughter.

There they are. Claudia pointed at the youngest members of our group, who sat huddled on a sectional in the farthest corner of the living room. Hey, you two, she called out, beckoning them closer.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, they rose to join us. Tammy Lynn’s expression was downcast. It wasn’t like the sweet little blonde to take bunco so seriously. In a gesture of solidarity, Megan placed her arm around her friend’s shoulders. Both girls seemed unusually solemn, which caused alarm bells to sound inside my head. Whatever was bothering them was bigger than Tammy Lynn rolling a low score in a silly dice game.

Tammy Lynn, are you okay? I asked.

Y’all didn’t break up with that nice beau of yours, now did you? Connie Sue inquired.

Janine, who was a registered nurse and worked part-time for the county health department, did a quick assessment of the girl’s pale face, then held out a chair. Here, Tammy Lynn. Why don’t you take a seat?

Pam shot a questioning look at Megan, then went to the sink for a glass of water.

Janine sank down opposite Tammy Lynn and patted her hand. If you tell us what’s wrong, maybe we can help?

Leave it to Janine, I thought with a mix of envy and admiration. She was always able to tune in whenever feelings were concerned. It’s probably one of the traits that made her such a good nurse. Her easy manner had a way of quickly putting people at ease.

Megan sighed unhappily. Tammy Lynn is worried sick about her meemaw.

Meemaw, I’d learned over the years, is a Southernism for grandmother. Though I’d never met the woman, I’d heard Tammy Lynn mention her with affection often.

Eula Mae Snow? Diane asked. Mrs. Snow came into the library just last week to return an armload of books. I didn’t have the heart to tell her they were months overdue. Rather than hurt her feelings, I paid the fine out of my own pocket.

Tammy Lynn grimaced. Meemaw’s been awful forgetful of late. Soon as the holidays are over, she’s agreed to enter a nursin’ home—Valley View Manor. Aunt Cora convinced her it’s for the best. In Meemaw’s present state, it’s not safe for her to be livin’ alone.

Janine nodded gravely. It’s always a difficult—and sad—situation when an elderly person has to leave their home to enter a facility, regardless of how nice it may be.

And that’s not the half of it, Megan said. Tammy Lynn’s meemaw gave the garden club ladies permission to use her house for the Holiday Home Tour.

Aunt Cora had an absolute conniption fit when she found out, Tammy Lynn added mournfully.

That’s not so bad, I soothed. All your grandmother has to do is tell them she’s had a change of heart. Surely they’ll understand once they learn the circumstances.

Whoa! Not so fast. Raising her hand in a fair imitation of a traffic cop, Rita pushed to her feet. You have no idea what’s involved in planning the home tour. As past president of Flowers and Bowers Garden Club, I know how this works. First of all, it isn’t easy finding people willing to allow a steady stream of strangers to parade through their home—

You got that right, Polly interrupted. A certain lady friend, who shall remain anonymous, makes it a personal mission to check out the homeowners’ medicine cabinets to find out what kind of pills they’re taking. She claims it’s her duty to fight the opioid epidemic and report any violations to authorities.

Gloria raised a brow askance. I hope the ‘lady’ you’re referring to isn’t the one who lives under the same roof as I do.

Hmph! Polly did her best to look affronted. What a thing to say! Gloria Jean, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.

Secondly, Rita continued, nonplussed, the program for the home tour has already been sent to the printers. Changes at this stage would be costly. And before you ask how I know this, I happen to be treasurer. We need every penny of the profits to purchase playground equipment for the Children’s Home. Eula’s house was selected because it’s a perfect example of a Southern cottage. At any rate, it’s too late for the club to locate a replacement.

To make matters even worse, Meemaw doesn’t know the first thing about decorating. She’ll be a laughingstock after folks see all the other houses on the tour. Tammy Lynn’s eyes filled with tears. Meemaw’s idea of Christmas decorations is a sorry-lookin’ artificial tree in the front window and an even sorrier-lookin’ wreath on the front door.

My imagination began to run rampant. Visions of magazine-worthy photos of rooms decked out in winter-wonderland style kaleidoscoped through my mind’s eye. Rooms straight from the pages of Southern Living, Better Homes & Gardens, and HGTV. Wouldn’t it be lovely if Mrs. Snow’s final Christmas in her own home was a memorable one? I mused. Then, inspiration struck like the proverbial bolt out of the blue. I’ve got a great idea! What if we put our heads together and help make it special. If we all did just a little bit, surely we could pull it off. How hard can it be?

Sort of like paying it forward? Claudia asked.

Exactly! I said, caught up with my own idea.

Pam gave me a wary look. Kate, do you realize what you’re proposing? Last time I checked, you didn’t possess a single arts and crafts bone in your entire body. Remember the ceramics class we took? You were the poster child for uneven brushstrokes.

My granddaughters made prettier birdhouses when they were in preschool, Connie Sue pointed out, not unkindly.

And I once tried to teach you how to crochet, Gloria reminded me. You managed to get the yarn wrapped around your fingers so tightly we needed a scissors to cut them free.

I brushed aside their concerns with a flick of the wrist. I might not be as talented as some of you, but I’m talking about the combined efforts of the Bunco Babes to make Christmas special for Tammy Lynn’s sweet grandmother.

Some of us hold full-time jobs, Diane pointed out. Not all of us are fortunate enough to be retired. I’m working overtime as it is since the head librarian is out after back surgery.

Pam was next to voice her concern. When Megan isn’t working as a receptionist at the dentist’s office, she’s preparing for her biology exam at the community college. And remember, Tammy Lynn is Sheriff Wiggins’s gal Friday.

Claudia waggled her left hand, making the huge diamond on her third finger catch the light. BJ’s taking me on a Caribbean cruise so I’ve been busy shopping and such, but I’ll do what I can to help. He’s telling folks it’s our second honeymoon.

Hmph! Monica sniffed. "If memory serves, your first honeymoon—Paris—was only months ago."

Claudia smiled broadly. A girl can never have too many honeymoons.

Let’s get back to helping Tammy Lynn’s meemaw, shall we? I could feel my brainstorm beginning to lose momentum. Time to get this train back on track. Who is willing to step up?

Let me check my calendar. Rita reached for the large tote she was seldom without and consulted her day planner. I’ve already been assigned to oversee the Hopkinses’ house, but I’ll help out when I can.

Very well, Monica said. Someone has to take charge. Since I have a knack with interior décor, I’m the obvious choice.

Connie Sue smiled sweetly. That’s very generous of you, dear. Who better than a born and bred Southerner to decorate a charmin’ cottage-style home. Not to mention my exquisite taste. I’ll make Miss Eula proud.

Monica bristled until I could almost see her dark brown hair stand on end. People are always telling me how much they admire my home—the color scheme, the fabrics, the furnishings. I’m a natural. Not to mention my superior organizational skills, she added for good measure.

All of us looked at one another, but no one wanted to interfere. Monica and Connie Sue had often been at loggerheads. It was simply a matter of waiting to see which one prevailed. The two women continued to glare at each other.

Finally, I jumped into the fray. Ladies, there’s no need to argue. You’re both very talented. I suggest you act as co-chairwomen of the Eula Mae Snow Christmas Home Tour Beautification Project. I’m certain that together Monica and Connie Sue will make a fabulous team.

Monica and Connie Sue were stunned into momentary silence. My little pronouncement had apparently taken the starch out of their sails. And, I added, pleased as punch with the results, those of us who can will work as your assistants.

How hard could it be? I wondered again.

Chapter 2

Monica, the possessor of superior organizational skills, had decreed the ad hoc committee meet at Eula Snow’s for a scouting expedition. We needed to look the place over, she insisted, and make a list of what needed to be done. Pam and I were on our way to Eula’s home in Brookdale, which was the nearest town to Serenity Cove as well as being the county seat. The others would meet us there. The others in this case consisted of Polly, Gloria, and our fearless cochairs, Connie Sue and Monica.

Brookdale practically oozes small-town charm. It has a Disneyesque vibe right down to the town square and stately brick courthouse. As Pam drove down Main Street, I noted that all the shops were decked out in their holiday finery. Posters advertising the Holiday Home Tour were prominently displayed almost everywhere I looked.

My idea, which had seemed so brilliant last night, faded in the bright light of day. Doubts had taken root overnight and now burst into full bloom. I swear, Pam, I said, I don’t know what came over me. Lordy, I must need my head examined. I’m not even safe with a glue gun in my hand. Let’s hope no one expects me to make bows. Mine always wind up looking like a bunch of knots.

Well, it’s too late now for second thoughts. Pam flicked on her blinker and signaled a right turn. You’ve already jumped off the diving board into the deep end of the pool.

I never did care much for heights, I grumbled. If I ever got up the gumption to jump off a diving board, I’d probably break my fool neck.

Think of this project as decorate or die. Once Monica sets her mind on something, there’s no going back.

Not to mention Connie Sue. Under all that fluffy blond hair lies a head hard as a rock.

Here we are, Pam announced, pointing to a neat white frame house with black shutters set back from the street.

I consulted a Post-it stuck to the dash. Yep, this is it. One-fifteen Adams Street.

One-fifteen Adams turned out to be as cute as a button. A gable over the porch boasted a single window that hinted of an attic beyond. A series of columns supported a wide porch suitable for sipping sweet tea on a lazy summer day. A brick-paved walkway passed through a vine-covered wrought-iron arbor and led to the front door.

Pam parked at the curb and switched off the ignition. Think of all the possibilities.

Think of all the challenges, I said, climbing out of her PT Cruiser.

Just then Connie Sue pulled up behind us in her Lexus. Monica emerged from the passenger side. Judging from their unsmiling faces, I assumed the pair had been bickering. Gloria and Polly were the last to arrive. Polly, at least, seemed to be in a holiday frame of mind. She reminded me of an elf in an oversized sweatshirt with a grinning Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer and Kelly green leggings. Alongside her, I felt downright dowdy in jeans and tailored blouse.

Hey, everyone! Polly greeted us with a jaunty wave. Let’s get this party started.

We trudged up the walkway behind Connie Sue. Isn’t this just darlin’? she gushed, making an expansive gesture. It’ll be such fun decoratin’ an older home.

From her sour expression, Monica didn’t seem to share Connie Sue’s enthusiasm for older homes. It appears to me we’ve got our work cut out for us.

Gloria motioned to a tree that took up most of the side yard. I bet that magnolia tree is as old as the house. It must be magnificent in the spring. And these vines—Carolina jessamine—have the loveliest fragrance when in bloom.

An old boyfriend once gave me perfume that smelled like magnolias, Polly reminisced. Silly man, thought that would make up for breaking our date in favor of playing poker.

So what did you do? Forgive and forget? Pam asked.

I kept the perfume but not the guy.

Connie Sue halted at the base of the porch steps for a final look around. Magnolia leaves will be perfect in a floral arrangement.

I groaned inwardly at the prospect of transforming leaves into anything creative.

I can hardly wait to see inside, Connie Sue said, continuing her appraisal. Claudia would tell you that a house like this, in the right neighborhood, would bring top dollar.

Location, location, location, Gloria singsonged Claudia’s mantra. In her former life, Claudia had been a top-selling Realtor in metro Detroit. These days she was content to be a newlywed.

Only people with a GPS can find their way to either Brookdale or Serenity Cove, Monica said. To say they’re both off the beaten path is an understatement.

That’s part of their appeal, I said, compelled to defend my adopted place of residence. Like most of the Babes, I call Serenity Cove Estates home. Situated in South Carolina near the Savannah River, Serenity Cove is a retirement community for active adults. In other words, we’re not the type to spend our days in recliners watching the Weather Channel. It had been love at first sight when Jim and I first visited. With loblolly pines, magnolias as big as dinner plates, a gentle climate, and smiling faces, Serenity Cove was the ideal place for my husband and me to retire. After Jim passed, the kids urged me to return to Ohio, where I’d spent most of

Reviews for The Twelve Dice of Christmas

[jetangen4571 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

amateur-sleuth, women-sleuths, murder, cozy-mystery, law-enforcement, situational-humor, verbal-humor, seniors If you like fun Southern whodunits, you'll love this story and the characters that make it so much fun! Misunderstandings, mislaid plans, friends and frenemies, and why was there a skeleton in the root cellar of the elderly widow's 1911 home? Great fun! I requested and received a free ebook copy from Beyond the Page via NetGalley.